


Bowie Comes to Brakebills

by knowledgekid



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Bowie is an interdimensional traveler who practices sex magic, M/M, Physical kids party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-21 04:06:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17635721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowledgekid/pseuds/knowledgekid
Summary: When I tweeted that I had a secret theory David Bowie was an interdimensional traveler who practiced sex magic and happened to be a rock star, Henry Alonso Myers tweeted back at me “Sounds about right.” Then Bacchus appeared on The Schooner of The Thin White Duke in Fillory — I.e., David Bowie. Bowie’s a magician. It’s canon. He appears at Brakebills, and this is what happens.





	Bowie Comes to Brakebills

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hoteldestiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoteldestiel/gifts).



> This had to happen as soon as I got that tweet.

Margo’s thinking about the party that night, trying to come up with a decent playlist in her head. It’s been a long, shitty week with a lot of long, shitty homework, and she’s ready for a fucking break. She hefts her Louis Vuitton satchel to her shoulder. God, why did Eliot have to take that stupid Botany elective? She hates when they had different classes. It’s so annoying to have to —

In the madness of Brakesbills students wandering between classes, a man bumps into her shoulder. “Pardon me, miss,” he says, in the smooth tones of a familiar British accent. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.” 

“‘S okay,” Margo mutters as she looks up. Just as the man turns away, she gets a glance of a sharp-planed face, thinnish lips, roman nose, two eyes that appeared different colors, blond hair — 

She almost drops her satchel. 

“Oh my god,” she says out loud to no one in particular, as the man saunters off into Fogg’s office. “That’s David fucking Bowie.” 

She turns towards the Cottage and runs. 

*****

“ELIOT! ELIOT! HOLY SHIT! ELIOT!” Margo bangs in the door yelling. Quentin and Alice are sitting in the common room. He’s draped over a couch that everyone, including allegedly Van der Weghe, has fucked on; Alice is studying, as usual. 

“Dude, Margo, what the fuck?” Quentin asks. He feels superior. For one, he is calmer and more collected than Margo Hanson. 

“Shut up, you fucking twat. I just saw David Bowie walking into Dean Fogg’s office. ELIOT!”

“Wait. Wait a second,” Quentin says. “Back it the fuck up. You saw what?!” 

“Margo, what the fuck?” Kady asks. She’s coming down the stairs, Penny in tow, which means they were just fucking, which means Margo’s glad she wasn’t around to hear it. “Did you just say what I think you said?” 

“Did you just think I said I saw David fucking Bowie walking into Fogg’s office? Because that’s what I just fucking said.” 

“Like, David Bowie-David Bowie?” Kady asks. 

“Yeah, like Ziggy fucking Stardust, Major Tom, the Thin White Duke, the Man Who Stole the World, the Man Who Fell to Earth, Nicolai Tesla —” 

“The Goblin King,” Quentin supplies. 

“The motherfucking Goblin King,” Margo says. “He. Just. Walked. Into. Fogg’s Office. Did you people take dumbass pills this morning, or did you just wake up this fucking stupid? I saw David Bowie walk into Fogg’s office like just now.” 

Kady crosses her arms over her chest. “Are you sure it was David Bowie?” 

“Bitch, I own every album. On vinyl. Did you know he didn’t actually intend to record “Under Pressure,” he wandered into Freddie Mercury’s studio and they started jamming, decided to write a song together, and recorded to together in a coke-fueled 24 hours?” 

“Okay, you actually fucking saw David Bowie,” Kady says. 

Eliot appears at the top of the stairs. “Bambi if you just said what I think you just said then we need to get him at our party tonight.” 

“Eliot. Why the fuck would David Bowie show up at a fucking Brakebills party?” Quentin asks. 

Margo smiles slowly. “Live music, bitches. David Bowie is a sucker for live music.” 

********

Eliot and Margo, of course, are the ones elected to stalk the Thin White Duke. They hover outside Fogg’s office, smoking cigarettes, Fogg walks him out the front door. And there he is, the blazing Brakebills sunlight throwing the aristocratic planes of his face into high relief. “Miss Hanson, Mr. Waugh,” Fogg says. “You’re of course aware that smoking on campus is strictly prohibited.” 

Margo blinks at him. “It is?” 

“Hi, I’m Eliot,” Eliot says to Bowie. 

“David Bowie, nice to meet you,” the tall man says politely. They shake hands. Eliot’s taller than Bowie, but they’re of a similar build, all lanky, loose-limbed sylvan grace. He looks Eliot up and down. Clearly looks Eliot up and down. 

“So, we were, um, unaware of your membership in the magical community,” Eliot says. 

“Oh, I’m an interdimensional traveler,” Bowie says. “Not from Earth, actually. And you?” 

“I’m, um, telekinetic,” Eliot manages. “Far less interesting than interdimensional traveling. We were just hanging around waiting for someone? There’s a live band playing at our party tonight —” 

“A live band, you say?” Bowie asks. He seems to perk up. 

“They’re really good, too,” Margo supplies in the middle of her dressing-down from Fogg. Who gets even more pissed off, and keeps going. 

“What time is this party happening?” Bowie asks. He’s still eyeing Eliot. 

“Um, I think the band comes on at nine?” Eliot manages. He realizes he’s batting his eyes and stops. 

“I think I can keep myself busy until then. Physical Kids’ Cottage, I assume?” 

Eliot’s brows knit together. “How did you know?”

Bowie cracks a half-smile. “I know a little something about what goes on here at Brakebills. And you all do throw the best parties.” 

*****  
Now they need a band. 

Luckily the Naturalists and two or three of the Psychics have some kind of musical magic as a secondary discipline, and Margo makes Todd round them all up stat, she doesn’t give a shit if they’re meeting Jesus Christ on a motherfucking mountain, they are coming to the Cottage and they are coming now. She explains. They freak. She tells them to calm the fuck down or she will piss in their pixie dust and steal all the psychedelics, respectively. She hands them a set list of covers. It’s mostly The Velvet Underground, The Talking Heads, Lady Gaga, and Nine Inch Nails. 

“Learn it,” she says. “You go on at nine.” 

Then she steps up the decor. She goths it out, roughs it up. Lots of black light and fireworks set up to go off at strategic times. Eliot comes up with some glowing cocktail involving absinthe. Then she dresses. What the fuck do you wear to fuck David Bowie? Because she is fucking David Bowie tonight. It’s not a question. She decides on white, because it’ll glow, something that shows off her tits. Go-go boots. A tiara, what the fuck ever. 

Eliot wears a tight tee and tight jeans and motorcycle boots. Margo wasn’t aware that he owned a t-shirt. 

Quentin decides he can wear what he wore to class because who gives a shit? Alice is all in black as usual and decides if it’s good enough for her, it’s good enough for Bowie, and maybe she’ll get a chance to blow him in the bathroom. 

By seven, literally the entire school is spilling out of the Cottage. Margo swears she sees Van der Weghe and Baxley. 

Bowie shows up at eight forty-five, dressed roughly like Eliot. Everyone stares and pretends they aren’t staring. No one says hi because they are too cool to do that. Eventually, Bowie heads to the bar. “Whatcha got tonight?” he asks Eliot. 

“Whatcha want tonight?” Eliot asks. “I made a special absinthe based thing for the night, but we’ve got just about anything.” This seems like a super long speech and he blushes. 

“I’ll take the special, Eliot,” Bowie says, and smiles. He looks Eliot up and down again. Margo, on the bar stool next to him, spins a little, hoping for his attention. He ignores her. 

Bowie leans his back against the bar and sips at his drink. Eventually, Eliot gathers up all his courage, takes a shot, and says, “So what brought you to Brakebills?” 

“Stupid meeting with Fogg about nothing important.” Bowie waves his hand. “Ridiculous business, really. What brought you behind the bar?””

“Necessity. I’m the only one with the decent taste to mix drinks,” Eliot says. 

Bowie laughs. He made David Bowie laugh. 

The band comes on. They’re fairly awful. After about four songs, Bowie leans back to Eliot. “Do you have a moment to step out from behind the bar?” he asks politely.

“If you have a moment to come with me,” Eliot says with more bravado than he feels. Oh my god. Bowie just propositioned him. His head swirls. They could do down to the basement, or the hall, but someone might interrupt them, or —

Bowie walks straight to the bathroom. Politely, he holds the door for Eliot, then turns the lock. He casts; what Eliot recognizes as Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music starts up. When Bowie turns around, he’s smiling, his look slightly predatory. “Suck or fuck?” he asks. 

“Fuck,” Eliot says immediately. 

“Good boy,” Bowie murmurs. He pushes Eliot against the wall, pulls his head down, and kisses him. Hard. His lips are on Eliot’s, thin, slightly chapped, sucking them into his mouth and playing with him before he nips. Eliot gasps. Bowie nips again. Then his tongue is in Eliot’s mouth, dueling, demanding. He yanks Eliot’s shirt off. 

“Yes,” Bowie says. He runs a finger down Eliot’s chest and brushes the curls off his forehead. “Oh yes. This is how I like it. Take your boots off. And turn your back, I want to see your ass while you do it.” 

Eliot leans down and pulls his motorcycle boots and socks off. Bowie’s behind him, pressing a hard cock on his ass. It’s huge. Eliot’s heard rumors but he wasn’t sure if they were true. He swallows. He’s never taken anyone this big before. When he stands, there are hands on Eliot’s belt buckle, expertly undoing it, then unbuttoning, unzipping, yanking his jeans down along with his boxers. 

“Perfect boy,” Bowie coos. “Oh, perfect boy.” He reaches around and grabs Eliot’s cock on his hand. Eliot knows he’s on the large size, but he’s not as big as Bowie. “Oh lovely, uncut too.” Suddenly there’s lube on his cock, and he’s being stroked with a practiced hand. Bowie’s wrapped his hand around Eliot’s dick and is playing with his foreskin, sliding it over his head. It’s delicious and Eliot can’t help but arch into it. “That’s it,” Bowie says. “That’s it.” Eliot braces himself, palms against the dark, rough-wood paneled wall. 

A finger touches Eliot’s ass and he gasps. “Like that, do you?” Bowie asks. There’s lube suddenly, all over Eliot’s ass, and he spreads his legs automatically. A finger enters him gently, just the slightly bit, then slides further and further inside. 

“Okay?” Bowie asks. “You’ll tell me if it hurts?” 

“Feels good,” Eliot gasps, as one hand lazily strokes at his cock. Another finger begins playing at his entrance. He’s soaked in lube. At first it’s just the tip, then more and more, swirling and stretching him. He’s used to this; Eliot breathes and relaxes into it. “Shhh,” Bowie coaxes. “Shhh. You like that? I’m going to have to stretch you out.” Then a third finger joins the other two. Eliot tenses a little, he feels a hand stroke his back and a firmer grip on his cock. 

“Does your cock feel good? D’you like that? I’m goong to shag you silly, sweetheart. Shhh.” Bowie’s gentle; Eliot relaxes and soon there’s three fingers inside him, spreading him out. “Good lad. What a good lad.” Eliot opens his eyes and looks down. Bowie’s hand is huge and pale on his cock, jerking it slowly, pulling his foreskin over his head. 

The fingers inside him begin to spread, and he gasps a little. The hand on his back strokes him again. “Oh, good lad. You can take it, that’s it.” He feels himself being stretched; he tries hard to breathe and relax and it feels good, it does, especially when Bowie starts fucking his fingers gently in and out while he spreads Eliot open. He takes a long time about it, and Eliot’s grateful for that. 

Finally, he hears a zipper go down. “You ready for it, sweetheart?” he asks. “Oh, beautiful boy, Eliot. Wonderful boy. Gorgeous cock you’ve got on you.” Suddenly the fingers withdraw and Eliot feels strangely empty for a moment; then Bowie’s cock is nudging at his ass. “Okay, darling? Okay?” 

“Good,” Eliot says. 

Bowie goes slow, slow, letting Eliot relax, stopping when he tenses, jerking him off the whole time. He’s good at keeping Eliot just on the edge of the precipice without spilling over. Once Bowie’s inside him, he stays still. “Okay, yeah?” he asks. 

Eliot nods, not trusting himself to answer. It feels so good, this stretching. Bowie’s hitting that sweet spot inside him. “Fuck me,” Eliot gasps. 

“That’s it,” Bowie says. He starts slow. It’s best at Eliot’s entrance and at his prostate, which make Eliot’s breath hitch. As Bowie realizes he’s okay, he picks up the pace, slowly, slowly, his enormous cock fucking Eliot faster and faster until Eliot’s nearly screaming with pleasure and Bowie’s grunting with effort, pushing inside him. “Good lad,” he says. “Good lad.” The hand on Eliot’s cock pumps harder. “Come for me. That’s it, let it go, come on sweetheart —“ 

Eliot arches and comes hard, splattering the wall in front of him, and he must tighten because Bowie goes right after, one big thrust, then he holds it and jerks as he spills inside him, then another and another and another until he’s spent. He pulls out, and Eliot hears him pull the condom off and toss it. 

Eliot turns around. He’s sore, but it was good. And David Bowie just fucked him. He’s like, one degree of sex away from Mick fucking Jagger. 

Bowie kisses him. “Good lad,” he says again. “Not hurting, I hope?” 

“A bit sore,” Eliot says honestly. Then, shyly, “You’re bigger than I’m used to.”

Bowie throws back his head and laughs. “I’m bigger than most people are used to, love.” One more kiss. Eliot gets dressed. “Aw, hate to see you put that shirt back on,” Bowie says. 

“No need,” Eliot shrugs. 

Bowie raises an eyebrow and opens the door. “After you,” he says. 

Eliot returns, shirtless, to his spot behind the bar. Bowie goes back to leaning against it, under the TADA sign. Margo looks at Eliot. 

“You fucking slut,” she says, but it’s admiring. 

Eliot shrugs. 

They all go back to watching the band play a terrible cover of “Born This Way.” 

Bowie disappears midway through the set. No one sees him go. Traveler, Eliot thinks. Good way to make an exit. Eliot’s going to be sore as all hell in the morning. The party roars on around them. Margo alternately sulks and exalts with him. They ought to put up a plaque in the damn bathroom, Eliot thinks. 

Maybe he will. Maybe he just fucking will.

**Author's Note:**

> Bowie actually was supposed to be massively hung.


End file.
